


still point of the turning world

by mrs_thorntonwolff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, post-DH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 19:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20278732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_thorntonwolff/pseuds/mrs_thorntonwolff
Summary: Harry and Hermione share a moment after the war.





	still point of the turning world

It’s 1:37 A.M when Harry stirs awake at the Burrow. Only a few days after the final battle.

It’s been a strange and surreal sort of limbo, these past few days. A calm before the storm; before the endless funerals and reconstruction efforts consume his every waking moment.

These few days, this short interlude between the harrowing before and the uncertain after, are meant for him, for everyone, to catch their breaths. For the necessities; food, space, and mercifully uninterrupted sleep.

And though the bottle of sleeping draught sits dutifully at his bedside table, awaiting use during the inevitable restless nights to come, Harry doesn’t feel like taking it. Instead he lies awake in the dark, staring at the beams of moonlight stretched on the ceiling, Ron’s rhythmic snoring rising and falling from the bed to his right. After some time, he lifts the blankets off himself, reaches for his wand and glasses, and slips quietly out of the bedroom.

He takes light and measured steps down the staircase, though the draught works well enough that he doesn’t need to worry about waking anyone. When he reaches the bottom he starts to move toward the kitchen before he’s distracted by a faint shuffling coming from the living room. He reaches for his wand quickly and makes his way toward it, silver light gleaming against the tiles of the floor.

The living room is dark when he enters, tinged with blue from the night coming through the windows, quiet but for the steady ticking of the Weasley’s enchanted grandfather clock. It’s also empty, that is until Harry notices a silhouette rising from the sofa. He aims his wand, sending sparks of light that illuminate wisps of wild hair, and small sharp gasps tells him he’s face to face with Hermione.

“Harry”, she whispers croakily, putting her wand away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you down here. I thought everyone would be asleep.”

“So did I.” He says, squinting at her in the dark. “Didn’t feel like taking the draught tonight,” he says simply before she can ask.

“Neither did I”, she says admittedly. She brushes her hair out of her face. “I know we’re supposed to force ourselves back to our regular routines, but it doesn’t feel right...everyone sleeping and no one, you know…” she trails off. _Keeping watch_ is what Harry knows she means to say. A habit that will prove tough to break after months of sleeping in shifts in a cold tent. 

They stand silently, looking at each other. Harry’s eyes adjust to the dark and he sees her fidgeting awkwardly with the sleeve of her robe. The air shifts uncertainly around them, his muscles start to tense.

It’s the first time they’re alone together since their time in the tent. It’s the one reunion he hasn’t had yet, the one he’s had to wait for. A part of him knew they needed to be alone, the tone of their friendship having changed into something deeper, darker, too intimate to be shared with anyone else. The things that passed between them, unspoken in the silence, made free by the darkness of the living room.

At the Burrow she seemed to keep herself carefully in his periphery, watching him from a distance, waiting, he thinks, for an invitation, though she’s the last person who needs one. Even now, Harry half expects (half hopes) for her to envelope him in one of her characteristic bone-crushing hugs.

Instead, she hangs back hesitantly, searching his face.

Harry answers by stepping closer to her, the powerful waves of gratitude and longing he has felt for her, that he’s been holding back for weeks, maybe months and years, threatens to overtake him. And tonight, he lets it fill him, flood through him, lets it tighten his chest and coil up around his throat. “Her...mione”, he manages to get out in a throaty rasp. “I just- I wanted to say,” he says, choking on his words, “I don’t know how to possibly thank-”

And he never gets the chance to finish because Hermione flies toward him, (finally) throws herself against him, wraps her arms around his neck. His arms close around her, and they’re stumbling back on to the armrest of the couch. He holds her tightly against him in the space between his legs, feelings with a heart-wrenching pang how thin she’s become.

He lets himself cry into her shoulders, painful sobs, digging his fingers into her rib-cage to steady himself. He lets himself feel it all, their shared trauma, their pain, the lengths she’s gone to keep him alive, the relief that they’re both still here despite it all. She cradles the top of his head, running her fingers through his hair softly.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like this, but when he opens his eyes and straightens himself to look at Hermione, he sees her face streaked with tears, feels her trembling quite violently in his arms.

“I thought…”, she whispers shakily. “When Hagrid carried out your body I thought--”

“I know Hermione,” he cuts her off quickly, desperate to spare her the thought. “But Hermione, listen, it’s going to be okay now. I’m here now...”, he says pleadingly because she doesn’t seem to be able to hear him with her eyes glazed, thoughts seemingly locked in that horrible moment.

And then his body is acting, must know instinctively what to do before he even thinks about it because a moment later, he presses his forehead against hers, brings her hand to his chest, and holds it firmly against his heartbeat.

It takes a few moments, but he starts to feel her body relax, her breath even out. Hermione closes her eyes and it’s almost as if she’s letting his pulse seep through her body, settling into her bones, and he knows she’s back with him as her breath slows with his. No other sound in the room but the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Harry’s eyes never leave her face. When the moment passes, she opens her eyes, smiles at him serenely. She takes her hand off his chest and brings toward her, kissing it softly.

“I’ll go make us some tea,” she says, standing up and walking into the kitchen.

When she comes back she hands him a steaming cup and curls herself by his side. He tells her everything that happened after he went into the forest to face Voldemort; seeing his parents and Sirius and Remus, the conversation with Dumbledore, Narcissa Malfoy lying to keep him alive. She listens intently, thumbs stroking over his palm and he feels himself lightening every passing minute, like the sky outside the window beyond them. They talk into the early morning and stop only when they hear the chips of birds in the garden, the dawn light glowing pink and violet in her hair.

“We should get back to our beds,” she says finally. _Before someone sees us; _the unsaid implication. There is an understanding that moments like these will only be rarer.

Harry stands up stretching. “You should get some rest. I think I might take a walk.” She nods and picks up their empty cups, turns around, and disappears into the darkened hallway.

Years from now Harry points to this moment as the cornerstone of his healing over the next few months, the basin from which he draws his strength. Sometimes, when life gets turbulent and messy, he simply closes his eyes and he’s back. He can almost feel Hermione’s hand under his, pressed against his heart, his pulse like a current between them. Into the calm, the silence...


End file.
